Even Mr. Hamilton, to whom most of the things of this world—­his beloved store excepted—­seemed to be unessential trivialities, spoke of the table linen.

“Seems to me,” he observed, in his gentle and hesitating way, “this tablecloth’s sort of spotted up.  Don’t you think so, Shadrach?”

Captain Shad’s reply was emphatic and to the point.

“Looks as if ‘twas breakin’ out with chicken-pox,” he replied.  “Ain’t we got a clean one in the locker, Isaiah?”

Mr. Chase’s face assumed an aggrieved expression.

“Course we have,” he answered, “but I didn’t know you was goin’ to have company.”

“Neither did we.  But we could stand a clean table-cloth, even at that.”

“I’ve got somethin’ to do besides changin’ tablecloths every day.”

“Every day!  Every Thanksgivin’ Day, you mean.  This one—­”

“Now, look-a-here, Cap’n Shad; you know well as I do that Sarah J. never come to do the washin’ last week.  She was down with the grip and couldn’t move.  If you expect me to do washin’ as well as cook and sweep and keep house and—­and shovel snow, and—­”

“Shovel snow!  What kind of talk’s that?  There ain’t been any snow since February.”

“Don’t make no difference.  When there was I shoveled it, didn’t I?  It ain’t no use; I try and try, but I can’t give satisfaction and I might’s well quit.  I don’t have to stay here and slave myself to death.  I can get another job.  There’s folks in this town that’s just dyin’ to have me work for em.”

Captain Shadrach muttered something to the effect that if Isaiah did work for them they might die sooner.  Mr. Chase rose from his seat.

“All right,” he said, with dignity.  “All right, this settles it.  I’m through.  After all the years I sailed cook along with you, Shad Gould, and after you beggin’ me—­yes, sir, beggin’ on your knees, as you might say, for me to run this house for you long as you lived—­after that, to—­to—­Good-by.  I’ll try not to lay it up against you.”

He was moving—­not hastily, but actually moving—­toward the kitchen door.  Zoeth, who was evidently much disturbed, rose and laid a hand on his arm.

“There, there, Isaiah,” he pleaded.  “Don’t act so.  We ain’t findin’ any fault.  Shadrach wasn’t findin’ fault, was you, Shadrach?”

“No, no, course I wasn’t.  Don’t talk so foolish, Isaiah.  Nobody wants you to quit.  All I said was—­Come back here and set down.  Your tea’s gettin’ all cold.”

To Mary-’Gusta it seemed as if the tea had been at least cool to begin with.  However, Mr. Chase suffered himself to be led back to the table and attacked his supper in injured silence.  Mary-’Gusta offered a suggestion.

“I guess I could wash a tablecloth,” she said.  “I always wash my dolls’ things.”

Her three companions were plainly surprised.  The Captain was the first to speak.

“You don’t say!” he exclaimed.